


A Kind of Loving

by amusedrhyme (lazarus_girl)



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-28 00:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14437362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/amusedrhyme
Summary: On the night of Barbara’s funeral, a grieving Valerie turns over the day’s events in her mind in the hope of finding answers. She reflects on what she’s lost, and the solace she may have found in Lucille at the same time.“The silence is deafening.”





	A Kind of Loving

**Author's Note:**

> Follows canon up to 7x08 with some slight liberties in regards to timeline, and elaboration upon what’s known about Val and Lucille’s backstory. I’ve been writing this off and on this since the finale. I had a lot of feels about Barbara’s death, and a lot of feels about Valerie and Lucille, which is reflected in the word count. As to why I felt compelled to write for them at all, blame Jennifer Kirby and Leonie Elliott. Written for the lovely @iampenbot. This is the product of many conversations, and in case you're wondering, there are a lot more stories to come! Thank you @lizardwriter for betaing and talking this out with me. Much love to everyone I shared bits and pieces of this with too. Breaking in a new pairing is always hard. I hope you think I got these two lovely ladies right. Title from the 1962 John Schlesinger film of the same name.

_"What matters is precisely this; the unspoken at the edge of the spoken."  
_ — Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 21 July 1912.

***

The silence is deafening.

You never once thought you’d crave the chaos and the noise of your childhood home on Grundy Street, forever struggling to make yourself heard over the sound of the radio or the television, your sisters, Evie and Marnie running up and down the stairs swapping clothes and make up; your mum and your aunties talking while they made enough food in the kitchen to feed an army. But now, you miss it. You miss in a way you never have before, that makes your chest ache, even though you’re closer to that house than you have been in years. It’s exactly what you need because you don’t want to think about Barbara – good, kind, wonderful Barbara and the fact she’s gone. You don’t want to think about how you’ve had to bury a dear friend, who should’ve been a friend for so many more years. You don’t want to think about how young she is or how cruel it seems. How unfair. How tragic. You don’t want to think about the fact there’s this huge hole here at Nonnatus without her – one that none of you really know how to fill, or even if you can.

You don’t want to hear talk of God if He can do that. You’ve never been a believer and days like this are precisely why. You’ve seen too many people who you loved, who you nursed, die in front of you. Barbara wasn’t someone you ever thought would add to that list so quickly. But somehow, you thought your skin was thick enough, for it not to hurt like this. You thought that seeing her in hospital, camouflaged by the lavender you brought with Lucille there to distract you, would be enough to stop her changing into the ones you couldn’t save – bloody and battered, screaming in pain as you saw them out of the world, just the same as the wailing babies you now bring in.

This time, you thought you were old enough and wise enough now to finally take it on the chin, like your dad always used to say when boys at school called you names and pulled your hair, and you didn’t have Evie there to protect you. When it was your turn to do the same for Marnie, it came easily. By then, you knew how to be strong. You knew how to take care of her and keep the things that scared her at bay. At least, you made it look that way. So much so, could fool yourself. Almost. You’re a good liar, but you’re even better at keeping secrets. Truthfully, you wish you had something to cling to now, some kind of faith to give you the comfort it seems to bring to Lucille, the nuns, and Tom. Except, you’re not sure it’d really be a comfort at all.

God or no God, you know everyone’s awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering all the same thing you are: _Why_. Medically you know why, but morally? Emotionally? You’re at a loss.

If you still couldn’t see your funeral outfit hanging on the wardrobe door, you’d swear it was some sort of terrible nightmare. You thought keeping the bedside lamp on instead of lying in the dark would comfort you, but all it’s done is let you see things you don’t want to.

Today, you want all of that chaos and that noise, because then, you won’t have any space to hear yourself think, and that’s what you need. You’ve never felt more alone in this room, and that’s not because Trixie isn’t in the next bed, chattering away as she flicks through the latest _Vogue_ , filling the room with the heady mix of Miss Dior and cigarettes. Turning over and seeing her empty bed is enough for a new round of tears to spring up – salty, bitter tears – and you clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet the sob that escapes when you imagine how Trixie will react when she hears the news. You managed to make it through the funeral, the wake, and the most sombre evening meal you’ve ever shared without crying like this, but it can’t carry on. If you’re not careful, you won’t be able to stop, and you’ve got visions of Phyllis and Lucille rushing in to comfort you, setting aside their own grief.

So, you force yourself to stop, frustrated and angry as you cast off your covers. There’s no point in sleeping now. You shift to the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress tight and inhaling deeply. It’s an old trick and a good one. It saw you through nursing training, through Hong Kong and Germany when the whispering and the judgement, the ridicule and the pressure from the men and the other nurses got too much. You never gave them the satisfaction of seeing you break. Evie wasn’t there to protect you then either, thousands of miles away in Poplar.

The last time you cried like this on a very different, bitterly cold night – terrified you’d made another mistake, and tiny little John Openshaw wasn’t really alive at all, still, lifeless, in your bag where you’d placed him hours before – Barbara was the one to comfort you, reminding you the cries you could hear were his.

The time after Compline is called “The Great Silence.” It’s never really been strictly observed here. Sister Julienne lets you do as you please within reason, as long as your music isn’t too loud and you don’t stay up till all hours. Tonight though, it feels exactly like that. A great and heavy silence has fallen over the place you love, the place you now call home. A huge cloak of grief has descended and engulfed everything.

Almost everything.

With a painful predictability, your thoughts turn to Lucille. For all the darkness there’s been today, she’s been the one bright spot. If you’re being honest, she’s been the bright spot in your life for a long while now.

You find yourself gravitating toward her, seeking her out. Without fail, you take her and Phyllis tea in the morning. It started as a way to warm her up and make her feel better until she got over her infection. Now, it’s just a nice little habit. It’s part of your routine, like putting in your rollers or shining your shoes. She makes everything better. Even the most boring, mundane parts of your job. When it’s your turn, you’ll both chat together through the monotony of taking inventory in the clinical room, and make plans for your next shared day off. You’ll listen to the radio together while you sterilise all the instruments in the autoclave, and it’s been wondrous to see her blossom out of her shyness to the point that she’ll sing along to The Ronettes and The Chiffons without any prompting. Without fail, Phyllis always catches you out, chastising you good naturedly for not paying attention to the job in hand, so you’re left giggling in the corner like naughty schoolgirls. On some days, you’ve been known to get up even earlier just to help her, even when it’s not your turn, so you get to spend time with her.

Tonight, the clinical room was completely silent. No talking, no singing, no laughter.

The world couldn’t come to a stop, you know that, but it still felt strange to be cycling off to work, heavy-hearted, looking outwardly as if nothing had happened. There was work to be done Phyllis reminded you. Barbara wouldn’t want you to abandon the ladies under your care to wallow in grief. That’s not the kind of legacy Barbara would want to leave. Even so, you cycled back to Nonnatus slower than you ever have from your last call of the evening, thrown into action when you least expected it after Mrs Jones went into labour. She was one of the patients on Barbara’s route, given to you at random when Phyllis was given the unenviable task of reallocating her workload once she fell ill. Her absence was so clearly felt in that room, even more than at Nonnatus. She’d built up a rapport with Belinda and her husband, Trevor, that you couldn’t hope to replicate. And yet, when baby Robert was born, and you placed him in Belinda’s arms, cord freshly cut, it felt more significant than you anticipated it would.

The slow journey home – it is home now, you realise – wasn’t because you didn’t want to go back to Nonnatus, it was because you knew the moment you saw Lucille again, and she asked about Mrs Jones and the baby – her kind eyes searching you, asking questions you have no answer to – you were liable to burst into tears without her saying so much as a word in reply. Births are always emotional but today, everything had extra meaning, what with Barbara, and the fact that Belinda and Trevor had endured so much loss, and yearned for a baby for so long. The enormity of it hits all at once, glad for the cloak of November dark evenings to hide your tears. So, you peddled slower, so that by the time you reached the front steps of Nonnatus, your tears of relief and joy for the Joneses and your sadness for Barbara had all but dried up, and Lucille would think you were fine.

She cares and she wants to comfort you, that’s all, it’s much in her nature as it’s in yours, but it’s too much sometimes. You can’t take it. Not today. You keep telling yourself it’s just the stress of Barbara’s funeral. The first one you went to was your dad’s when you were too young to really understand any of what was happening. You just wanted him back to buy you some sweets from Mrs Hagger’s shop for your Friday treat – dolly mixtures, sherbet lemons, rhubarb and custards, anything you ever wanted from those huge jars on the shelf behind the counter. No, you want him back to hoist you up on his shoulders carry you around Poplar, or, to sit you on the table to watch him play darts with uncle Pete in The Black Sail. You were his favourite.

You wish your memory of him wasn’t beginning to fade and getting harder to conjure. You don’t want there to come a time when that happens to your memories of Barbara. You wish you could say the experience of losing someone else was easier this time, or that you hadn’t endured any others in between. It hurts far more than you anticipated.

Everything seems heavy with emotion, leaden with the kind of grief that makes every tiny moment with Lucille seem more important than it probably actually is. But, that’s a lie – a white lie, but not so little – you know because you’ve felt this way before. Just once.

It seems a lifetime ago now, when you were barely fourteen, wishing yourself older, to be just like Evie and her friends. Back when you’d sneak cigarettes from your uncle Pete’s jacket pocket, and drink dregs of warm beer from glasses when you’d collect for your aunt Florrie in The Sail. Back when everyone thought you were sweet on Frank Goodsell’s brother, Kenny. You let them think so, because Frank was Evie’s boyfriend, and Kenny was a good friend. You’d sneak up west with him to the Rialto and watch Gloria Swanson and Marilyn Monroe. He never asked questions, and it was easier than the truth. It was easier than admitting what it meant when you’d find excuses to spend more time with Evie’s best friend, Jessie. Jessica May Saunders. It was Jessie you’d rush from the classroom for. That you’d steal those cigarettes for. That you’d let do your make-up and curl your hair back when it was long. It was Jessie you’d lie awake thinking about. It was Jessie you dreamed of whenever you did sleep. You loved her when you didn’t know what loving someone really was. It was Jessie you kissed one Christmas Eve, sitting on back stairs at The Sail while the rest of your family stayed in the bar, too drunk on stolen sherry to really realise what you were doing. It was Jessie who broke your heart when she rejected you, looked you with disgust and said she ‘wasn’t that way,’ and threatened to tell Evie the truth – she wasn’t so beautiful after that. It was Jessie you sobbed over every night for months. You never spoke about it again. To this day, Evie thinks all those tears were Kenny’s fault. A few months later, he got called up for National Service at 17, and ended up in Korea. He never came home again.

Kenny Goodsell was the first boy you couldn’t save. He wasn’t the last. Jessie Saunders was the first girl you ever loved. She wasn’t the last either, no matter how you wished it wasn’t true.

The drink helped you to forget a lot of things. Jessie, nursing training, the army, how you ached for a time when you, Evie and Marnie were the best of friends (and the worst of enemies). You were never apart. Before Eddie Moss. Before Brooklyn and Michael Sullivan. Sometimes, you think the worst thing ever to happen to you is the insatiable drive you had to grow up and see the world.

There were other girls, other kisses, drunken fumbles that you never talk about, pressed up against them in the dark corners and alleys out of sight. There are names for girls who behave like you once did, back when you were barely twenty, foolish, and desperate for any kind of contact. You liked the danger, the thrill. For a while at least. If your mum knew what you really got up to, she’d have turfed you out onto the street. You’d go to Gateways sneaking in at first, but then the older you got, the bolder you became. Just a few drinks and someone else to disappear into those alleys with that’s all. No love. No names. No promises. No feelings. None at all, except shame. There’s a lot of shame, and more than a little regret.

That is, until you met Lucille.

From the moment you answered the door to let her in, frozen to the bone, you just knew. You knew she’d be the friend you’d been looking for. A breath of fresh air. The best friend you’d been waiting for all your life. Once Evie got married, had Anthony and Alice, and Marnie left for New York, everything was different. You spent more and more time alone. After Jessie, you didn’t make friends easily, and tried to keep people at arms length. It was easier. Except, with Lucille all you’ve ever wanted to do is hold your arms open. Not really thinking when you helped her in and tended to her knee, cut deep and streaming with blood. She never complained once. That stood out to you, after so many years of overtired, miserable soldiers in much the same predicament as her. Alone, lonely, in pain, and thousands of miles from home. If she’s ever felt any of those things, she’s never shown it. You never want her to feel alone, or like she has no one – they aren’t the same thing you see. You feel deeply and fiercely protective of her, something like you feel for Evie and Marnie, but entirely different at the same time.

You want to make sure she feels safe and welcome, when so many people in Poplar – like Mae _bloody_ Stanton – don’t want her here at all. You know what it feels like to be unwanted and out of place, and you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. You won’t stand for her being treated badly, not from anyone, but especially not Poplar people. You’ll never understand where their hatred, their disgust, comes from. It makes you angry, sets off the temper that the army, Queen Alexandra's and Brigadier Gillespie tried and failed to cure you of. You were easily provoked, angry at the world, and though a lot has changed, you don’t think it’s changing fast enough. You’ll never apologise for wanting a better, fairer world, no matter how Sister Julienne might dislike how outspoken you can be.

That first night, after you and Trixie settled Lucille in, wrapped up warm in her new room with Phyllis, you remember thinking how glad you were she’d finally arrived safely, and how nice she seemed – not at all like you imagined from the scant details Phyllis had shared. Your thoughts came straight out of Trixie’s mouth a few moments later when you both retired to bed, announcing Lucille to be ‘really quite lovely.’ You agreed, barely able to hide the smile on your face when you saw it reflected in the mirror on Trixie’s dressing table. Her words rang around your head all night while you kept half an ear out in case Lucille should need anything. You didn’t get much sleep. Not much has changed in the months since, you think. It’s hard to imagine Nonnatus House or Poplar without her. You’ve just gotten to know her better, never feeling more at ease in someone’s company.

She’s told you all about Jamaica, where she grew up in Mandeville, and her old library job. You lend each other books all the time, and you take just as long reading all the parts she underlines, and the notes she leaves in the margins. You’ve seen pictures of her parents, Arthur and Hortense, and her brothers and sisters, set in frames pride of place on her bedside table, just like yours. She’s told you with some shyness about her small group of friends, and later, her childhood sweetheart, Delmar Williams – Del, she offered, sweetly, as if you knowing this mattered – who still writes to her, even though their relationship ended long before she got her ticket to England. The fact they can still be friends says much about the kind person Lucille is. You’ve picked up Delmar’s letters time to time when you’ve spotted them, and you can recognise his handwriting just as well as Hortense’s.

They feel as familiar to you as your own family, and you don’t know how that is, because you’ve never even met. It’s the way Lucille tells stories you think, even things like her nursing training in Taunton. No matter what it is, she expresses it with such positivity, such love and warmth that it’s infectious. She makes those family pictures come alive. You think you could listen to her talk forever. When she talks about someone she loves, her whole face lights up. She says the same about you; eager to hear your stories about growing up in Poplar, and the silly scrapes you and your sisters would get into. How your mum and your aunts brought you up to be brave and strong, to hold your head high and never back away from what’s right. You didn’t have much growing up, but you had more love than you can ever put a price on. Dyer women have always been strong, and you hope you live up to their legacy. You hope your dad would be proud.

Lucille tells you that she thinks he would be, but you already know she’s more than a little biased. You’d be lying if you said her praise didn’t flatter you and boost your confidence.

You like the night times best, even if you’re both on call. It’s nice to be all together in the lounge room, gathered around the television or the radio with Sister Monica Joan, Phyllis, and Sister Winifred, or playing Scrabble badly, and trying to stop Trixie from cheating. But, you’d also be lying if you didn’t like that time even more when it’s just you and Lucille together. No matter how the evening starts out, you always end up sitting next to Lucille while she sews, reads her latest loan from Sister Monica Joan’s library, or watches the television with you.

Other nights, you’ll sit at the kitchen table with her while she writes home, or you both read, brushing up on your theory for any imminent potentially difficult births. Dr Turner has started to leave his copies of _The Lancet_ for Lucille, and she just devours them, fascinated. You’re fascinated too, but not always by the contents of _The Lancet_. You’re content to watch her, polishing your shoes, ironing your uniform or flicking your way through one of Trixie’s seemingly enormous stack of magazines. It’s usually _Photoplay_ or _Vogue_ ; anything but _The Lancet_ if she has anything to do with it. Sometimes, when Lucille catches you looking, you retreat to their pages, feeling yourself flush with embarrassment. Other times, you don’t look away and neither does she. All she does is smile, in her soft, sweet Lucille way. When that happens, you have no words for the feeling that comes over you. After the others have gone to bed, you’ll have tea and toast, sometimes sneak the odd violet cream from your chocolate stash in the clinical room – her face when she tried one for the first time was nothing short of wondrous. Talking to her and being with her is easy. Comfortable in the best sense. The tea and the toast have gone cold more times than you can count. Neither of you ever really seem to mind. Not even when you’ve talked for so long that it’s light outside, and you barely make it upstairs to change into your uniform before Phyllis is downstairs herself.

The way Lucille looks at you sometimes makes your heart flutter and your stomach do somersaults, just like Jessie, but this time, it doesn’t make you ache, make you wish the feeling away, or stamp it out or swallow it down. No, you welcome it. You bask in it. Other times, when you can only see her by the dim lamplights in this very room, you think she might be the most beautiful girl – woman – you’ve ever seen. Better than Marilyn or Rita Hayworth. You’d never say such things of course, not least because Lucille is so shy she wouldn’t know what to do with a compliment like that. The desire to tell her things like that are mostly down to the gin in your late-night cocktails, and getting carried away with Trixie’s stories about Christopher, playing out like some real-life version of _Mills and Boon_.

Lucille makes you happy, and there’s much to be said for that.

You wonder if Evie feels the same way about Eddie, Marnie about Michael or, your mum about your dad when he was still alive. All you have are your memories, family stories and pictures on the mantle taken long before the accident at the docks to remember him by now. You all try not to let him fade. Your mum’s told you about their first meeting so often; you can recount the story by heart. It was love at first sight. You didn’t really believe that was possible until Lucille.

She’s making you rethink a lot of things you once thought were impossible.

There’s a light knock on the door, and it jolts you out of whatever this strange stupor is. It’s so light, that you’re not entirely sure you didn’t imagine it. But then, it comes again, a little louder.

“Valerie?”

The voice that follows the knocking is equally quiet, laced with concern. You’d know it anywhere.

Lucille.

You wonder if she heard you crying.

Hurriedly, you smooth down your hair and straighten your pyjamas before you answer, because she can’t see you in this state, even though you know she wouldn’t care one bit that you haven’t put your rollers in or laid your uniform out.

“Come in,” you say, in a little croak. The rawness in your voice makes you flinch and you clear your throat in the hope it’ll magically go away.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asks, softly, her head just peeking around the door. “I don’t want to impose.”

_Oh Lucille. Dear, sweet Lucille._

“Not at all,” you reply, waving her in. From the look on her face, it seems like she thought you’d turn her away. That makes you hurt in an entirely different way. There’s a tinkling of teacups that accompanies her entrance, and you see she’s carrying a tray of tea and toast. She’s too busy watching the tea doesn’t spill to look at you. Instinctively, you swipe at your face, hoping the dim light in the room is enough to hide your tears and the telltale redness left behind. “You’d never be imposing.”

You’ve allowed yourself to falter a little in front of her today, in moments where you’ve been less than the strong, stoic, neatly turned out Valerie Dyer she’s come to know, but you can’t break completely. You just _can’t_. When she steps into the light, you can see she’s been crying too. The realisation she’s likely done it alone downstairs in the chapel makes you feel even worse than you did before.

“Phyllis … I wanted to give her … some time to herself, but then I realised I didn’t know where else to go, and it didn’t seem right to be anywhere but here.”

You nod, knowing exactly what she means. All night, you’d hoped she’d come, because at least then, something about today would’ve been normal, and the distraction would’ve been enough to stave off what’s gnawing away at you. For a little while at least. After the clock ticked its way past midnight some time ago, you gave up hope.

Despite everything, you smile a little. “Bless you.”

“I couldn’t bear to break our tradition.” She smiles too, but it fades too fast for your liking.

Until she said that, you didn’t realise how much you’d come to rely on these little visits, but, you also didn’t dare acknowledge how important they’ve become for her too.

“Tea in the morning, tea and toast in the evening before bed and the odd hot chocolate if we have enough milk,” you say, looking at her fondly as she sets the tray down on the bed, leaving enough space to sit next to you. “That’s us.”

You ignore how much you like the sound of the word ‘us.’

“Of course!” she turns toward you, brightening a little. “Given the circumstances, I thought a little nip of whiskey in our tea was in order. It won’t be missed.”

She carefully passes the cup to you, and you clink it against hers in a sad sort of toast before taking a sip. Barbara’s name goes unsaid.

You know she wants to ask you how you’re feeling, you can sense it from the way she’s looking at you – studying you – but you’re glad she hasn’t yet, not least because you don’t know what to say in reply, and you’re more likely to burst into tears once she does ask. The last time you were both up this late, you were trying and failing to keep your mind on anything but worrying about Barbara, on edge waiting for the phone to ring. Back then; Lucille’s way to soothe you both was hot chocolate. You hadn’t meant to bring up what had happened at church, but you couldn’t help it. You know her faith gives her comfort. Going to Mrs Palmer’s to worship instead of enduring that mob of ignorant bigots at St. Marks in Dalston would make her life so much easier, but she still won’t hear of it. Deep down, you know she’s right not to let them win, but it doesn’t make seeing her so upset any easier to bear.

You know exactly how heavy the weight of people’s scrutiny can be and how hard it becomes to carry. All you wanted to do was lighten the load a little.

“You should eat something,” she says after a moment, offering the plate of toast. “Barely touched a thing earlier.”

“Not had much of an appetite,” you reply, taking a slice with your free hand anyway.

It always tastes better when she makes it, just like the tea. The toast is perfectly browned, and there’s enough butter on it, and that little bit of whiskey in the tea is enough to take the edge off and make you feel a little brighter.

It must show because of the look on her face when she asks, “Better?”

“Much,” you manage, between chews, hand to your mouth, self-conscious in case she thinks you’re rude for talking with your mouth full. “You have the other slice,” you continue, motioning to the other slice still on the plate.

“You’re sure?”

“It’s tradition, after all,” you offer, catching her eye.

You both laugh a little then, and it feels strange to do it. Not wrong exactly, but not right either.

“It is,” she nods, taking another sip of her tea.

There it is, that soft, kind look in her eyes. Again. Just having her here is making you feel better. Just sitting together while just eating toast and sipping tea, makes the pain of all this hurt fractionally less. Realising that just makes you feel terrible. How dare you be feeling the tiniest flicker of something like happiness at a time like this? You want to say something else to lighten things up and make her laugh. Something, anything, to lift the heavy solemnity in this room while you both carry on with the tea and the last bites of toast. You want to make this like every other evening you’ve spent together here, and switch the subject to something fun and light – like on the night of Marge’s stroke, and you were the one to console Lucille and reassure her that she’d done everything she could for her. She had, there’s no question, but you understand why she felt so guilty, why she still does, and how sometimes you can be the most qualified person to help in the room and still feel utterly useless. That night, there was strong, sweet tea – just the way you like it – shortbread, and a shared cigarette or two as the salve for both your hearts.

That’s when things started to change you think, when you felt closer to Lucille than anyone else at Nonnatus.

The memory of watching Marjory go into the ambulance with Mae is vivid for a lot of reasons, not least because you’ve known her since school, and you pop in to the salon all the time to see her, Dennis, and the girls. But, it wasn’t just the horror of watching all of that unfold, or the worry over what would happen next for Marjory and her family, it was Lucille’s face. She was so anxious and worried, and you feared she’d blame it all on herself. And then, in the middle of the street, in front of all those people outside Mae’s shop, she took your hand and held it, while you both watched and waited for the ambulance to disappear out of sight. It was a comfort for you both, and it didn’t feel strange or awkward at all, just … _right_. Then, the ambulance doors closed, and you saw yourself next to her reflected in the darkened glass of its back doors. The perfect mirror. You looked down at your joined hands, fingers laced with hers, and you had to let go, because you were afraid that all the eyes that were watching Marjory would suddenly be watching you both instead. Lucille was already the subject of much local gossip, and you didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. But, deep down, you know it was also about self-preservation.

You didn’t like how that rightness felt. You didn’t like how easily you could see yourself still hand-in-hand with her all the way back to Nonnatus. With Jessie, you were too young and foolish to really know your own mind or what any of the feelings meant. You weren’t smart enough to recognise the signs, but now you are. Since then, you’ve tried to be more careful and keep your head so history won’t repeat itself, but it’s harder than you ever imagined it would be. It’s hard because everything about Lucille makes you want to be closer to her, and let down your guard. It falters on an almost daily basis.

Tonight, it feels almost non-existent.

Lucille’s cup clinks back into its saucer, and the break in the comfortable silence that descended makes you jump.

“Valerie?” she says, and you turn to look at her, surprised by how concerned she sounds.

Suddenly, you realise she probably asked you a question and you’ve been staring at what’s left of your tea all this time. Quite unannounced, a tear rolls off your cheek and lands right in the cup.

“I wish I could ease your pain somehow,” she exclaims, her voice cracking, heavy with emotion. “Today has been so hard for me, and I didn’t know Barbara for nearly as you long as you. I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been.”

Something in your chest twists at that, and you find yourself sniffing back fresh tears. You’re not really sure who or what you’re crying for now, and there’s no way to answer without admitting something you’ll likely regret, so you don’t answer at all.

“C’mere,” she soothes, pulling you closer. You want to fight against it, and push her away, because just like you told Trixie after baby John, you can’t stand kindness like this. Today, from Lucille, it’s too much. And yet, you let her do it, not resisting when she wraps her arm loosely around your shoulders. “Oh goodness! You’re frozen!”

You thought the way your hands were shaking was just the grief and the shock, but no, it’s the cold. She’s so much warmer than you in her housecoat and slippers.

“Never noticed,” you reply, uselessly. You got ready for bed on autopilot, picking thin cotton pyjamas instead of your usual flannelette ones, more suited to November nights.

Before you can argue, she takes the cup from you, placing it on the tray, and sets the whole thing aside on Trixie’s bed, cups tinkling all the while, betraying her. Lucille’s hands don’t seem so steady anymore either. That usually means you’re going to sit and smoke while you talk until one of you is sensible enough to look at the time and think of the morning shift. Tonight, it feels different. She turns back to you; reaching for the blanket on top of the bed, and wrapping it round you, rubbing your arms to generate warmth, like you’re some sort of invalid. What little energy you had left from the day is long gone.

You know exactly where her mind is going. You all listened to Barbara cough and sneeze, told her time and again that she should go and see Dr Turner when the cold she was fighting dragged on into a second, and then third week.

If only you’d all pushed a little harder.

“What am I going to do with you!” she declares, wrapping the blanket around you tighter.

“I’ll be fine, I’ll warm up in a minute,” you assure her. “Don’t worry.”

“I _do_ worry,” there’s an edge of seriousness to her voice you weren’t expecting. “I prayed for you in the chapel today, after I lit a candle for Barbara,” she admits, barely able to look at you. “I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, but it does to me.”

If only she knew.

There’s such pain in her eyes, it hurts you beyond measure to see it. You’re on the brink of tears now. It’s your turn to feel anxious and desperate to know how to help her.

“Oh Lucille,” is all you can say, and it doesn’t seem nearly enough. “Of course it means something,” you place your hand over hers briefly, and give it a comforting squeeze, just like she did today during the funeral. “You cared enough to send those prayers.”

You so want to make her feel better, like she’s been doing so selflessly for you. How could she think she’s not entitled to care or to grieve?

“It doesn’t matter how long you knew her,” you assure her, your thoughts returning to Barbara once more. Somehow thinking of her is better than thinking of yourself. “I only wish that you’d gotten more time to know each other. You could’ve been such great friends.”

You only realise that fact once it’s out of your mouth.

Without doubt, you know Barbara could’ve been such a support to her with her faith and helped her in ways you can’t, no matter how much you try and understand. She just looks at you; her eyes brimming with unshed tears because she knows that too. She’s trying so desperately to be brave and not give herself over to it.

“It’s OK to feel sad,” you say, gently. “It’s OK to cry.”

The irony of giving that advice isn’t lost on you.

Those words tip her over the edge and she bursts into tears you know are long overdue. “Come here,” you reach out for her, pulling her closer, even though you know you shouldn’t. Listening to her sob, feeling every little shake as she clings to you so desperately is enough to set you off crying again. They’re silent tears this time, rolling unbidden down your face as you watch over her, wishing for her tears to stop because you can’t stand to see her like this, even if you do know the release has been building ever since you saw her this morning.

She buries her face in the crook of your neck, resting her head on your shoulder, and you just listen as she sobs, enduring it, your heart breaking for her all the while. “It’s OK. It’s OK.” You cradle the back of her head, and stroke her hair and try to calm her. “I wouldn’t have gotten through any of it without you.”

You’re glad that she can’t see you now, because you didn’t mean to say that out loud, it just slipped out.

“Me either,” comes her reply, her voice small and shaky when her tears start to subside. “I’m sorry for crying all of over you!” she moves back, just a little, wiping at her face, embarrassed.

“Quite the pair aren’t we?” you say, managing to smile through your tears. Somehow, she’s smiling too. “Don’t apologise, and never think you can’t confide in me if you need it.”

You mean that. Every single word.

“Thank you,” she replies quietly, her voice still laced with sadness, still shaky. You know she means that too. “I should leave you to get some rest,” she continues, glancing over at the clock on the bedside table. You follow her gaze and see it’s almost two in the morning.

“I feel much better,” you offer, and she nods, patting your hand.

She’s sitting much closer to you than you realised.

“I’m glad.”

You have to be up at six. Along with Lucille, you and Mrs Turner are first on call. You have to drop back in on Mrs Jones and do your checks on her and baby Robert. Mrs Foster’s twins are due any moment. Mrs Bayliss is overdue. Mrs Lawson never turned up for her last clinic appointment, but she’s due any day. Mrs Hardy refuses to do anything you tell her because she thinks you’re too young and not fit to replace Sister Julienne who delivered all her other children – you wanted to pass her over to Phyllis, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Somehow, all that feels very far off in the future, but you have to think of it, because at least then, you aren’t thinking about how Lucille is looking at you, and isn’t leaving at all.

Her hand hasn’t left yours either.

You don’t dare let yourself think about what that might mean.

“Goodnight then, Valerie,” she says, almost a whisper.

“Goodnight,” you reply, softer still, glancing away because the way she’s looking at you is too much. 

It’s making you think all those impossible things again.

You lift your head again to look at her when she says, “Sleep well,” at the same time she leans forward to kiss you on the cheek, just as she always does. But, it’s not like always, because she misses, the kiss landing on the corner of your mouth instead. She pulls away immediately, wide-eyed with panic. You say nothing, utterly thrown, blinking back surprise, heart speeding in your chest, blood rushing loudly in your ears.

“Oh – I – sorry,” she stutters out. “Forgive me.”

_There’s nothing to forgive._

You don’t tell her that, the words are still on the tip of your tongue, lost when you let out a long, shaky breath. Instead, you shrug off the blanket, and do the only thing you can think of in reply. Instead of answer in words, you close what little distance is between you, and gently brush your lips against hers. Just once. She doesn’t push you away or say no, so you do it again, just as light, just as soft. Except this time, she responds, surging forward and kissing you back a little harder than you expected. She’s trembling. You can feel it. This shouldn’t be happening, not here. You know you should stop, but you can’t help it, you just keep kissing her, cradling her face in your hands as you deepen the kisses. She sighs into your mouth and you pull away, taken by surprise.

She isn’t one of the girls in the alley behind Gateways. This is Lucille.

_Oh Lucille. Dear, sweet Lucille._

She looks just as scared as you, just staring, breathing ragged and heavy.

“I – we – shouldn’t have done that.”

It’s a lie. To save yourself and to save her.

The words are out of your mouth before you realise, before you can even really think, because she doesn’t look at you with the disgust Jessie did that night. You want to reassure her, and calm her down, but you can’t find the right words, because she’s looking at you with the opposite of disgust. She’s looking at you with love. She touches her fingers to her lips, reeling. Just like you, she’s trying and failing to find words. Without saying anything at all, she rushes out of the room, closing the door behind her.

You hear a sob escape her, muffled by the distance between you.

Then, it’s you turn to cry.

She didn’t say she ‘wasn’t that way.’ She didn’t say _anything_ at all, and somehow that’s worse. You look up to the ceiling, feeling tears well, sting, and then fall. You scramble back into the bed, pulling up the sheets and eiderdown high to hide yourself, as if you’ll somehow disappear, or undo all of the mess you’ve made. You curl up, turning your head into the pillow to muffle the sound of your tears.

These tears are much more familiar.

You should go to her, but you can’t. How on earth can you explain any of this to her, or worse, Phyllis, when you can’t even begin to explain it to yourself? If you aren’t dismissed by Sister Julienne in the morning, it really _will_ be a miracle and you’ll never doubt the existence of God again. You wouldn’t blame Lucille because you understand that fear. You’ve fought around it and through it all your life since Jessie broke your heart.

Never, ever, did you dare to think Lucille might be the one to mend it.

The tears subside quickly because you force them to, fists balled around the bedclothes, gripping tight. You’re not sure if a few minutes have passed or a few hours when the door creaks, brushing along the thick carpet as it’s opened slowly, and you stiffen, screwing your eyes closed for fear of what’s coming. The door closes with a click, followed by cautious footsteps. Then, there’s a rustling of bedclothes. You stay silent and still, feeling the bed dip under the new weight.

“Please don’t cry,” Lucille says, voice shaky, barely above a whisper. “I can’t stand it.” You know she’s been crying too. “I couldn’t just leave …”

She trails off, her words fading into nothing, and you know why that is too. Sometimes words are too much and not enough. She wraps her arms around your waist and reaches for your hand. You let her take it once more, lacing your fingers together.

“Stay,” you manage. “Stay with me.” You gulp in air. “Just for tonight, please stay.”

She lets out a whimper, sniffing back tears. “ _Valerie_.”

Your name sounds different.

The good half of you says you shouldn’t reach out to her like this, that you should make her leave and never speak about any of this again. It’s the grief. It’s the night. It’s the whiskey. The not so good half says you want this. You want _her_ and it terrifies you because of how loudly it proclaims itself to be the truth, no matter how you fight against it. This can’t be wrong. How can love be wrong when Lucille is so good and kind to you? When she gives her love so freely? You don’t know, you don’t know anything at all, beyond the fact you want to be near her, hold her in your arms and kiss her. Again and again, all so you can hear that wondrous sigh fall from her lips every time you do it.

That half wins out.

You lift your hand away, and turn in her arms to face her. “It’s OK,” you say, quietly, reaching out to carefully brush away the tears that streak her cheeks. “It’s OK,” you repeat, to soothe yourself as much as her. Pulling her closer, you wrap your arms around her. She’s cold now, shivering against the chill in her nightdress, arms bare, her housecoat left behind in her room. You say nothing, studying her for some signal that she really is OK now, that being here with you like this is OK too. Tomorrow, you can talk about this. You can think about what it all means when the sun seeps weakly in through the curtains. You have time to find words. You have to time to try and understand this.

For now, all you want and all you need is this. All you need is Lucille. She wants something else, you can feel it, from the way she’s looking at you. Even in this light, you know. You tilt your head down the moment she lifts hers, and she presses her lips to yours once more. Still gentle, still cautious, like she doesn’t know if you’re real or if you’re really both still awake.

Sooner than rather than later, you’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms. Sooner still, Phyllis will be the one to find you like that, when she comes in to rouse you gently when you sleep through your alarm. She’ll make no comment; because she’ll know you both needed the comfort. She’ll know that you craved the care and the touch of another person to make this unbearable ache in your heart lessen just a little. To help you bear the pain of this loss and try your best to carry on. For now, you just keep kissing Lucille, soft and slow, feeling her relax into you, seeking out more. She wants this. She needs this. Just like you do. Every time you kiss her, it really does hurt less, and all the fear and the panic in your head gets quieter and quieter.

You don’t have the words to really explain this, and you’re certain she has no idea at all either, but you will. Tonight isn’t about talking. It’s about the need to feel something other than pain and sadness. Maybe she feels those words in your kisses. Maybe she hears them on your breath. Maybe you can too.

The silence isn’t so deafening anymore.


End file.
